


The Loyalty of a Shield-Maiden

by green_ola



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV), wayhaught - Fandom
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Divergent, F/F, Historical fiction;, Medieval Iceland;, Norse mythology;, Short Story, TW: Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18251678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_ola/pseuds/green_ola
Summary: “At the last Yule celebration, during the longest night of the year, Frigg sat at her spinning wheel, weaving the fates. Those seven courageous warriors laid their lives in her name, fulfilling the destiny she foretold. Those who go, must go willingly. Let the gates of Valhalla and Fólkvangr stand open for them today!” Gissur spills a bit of mead from his cup onto the shore, as a blót sacrifice to Odin and Freyja, and gulps the rest of the cup. The gathered crowd follows the example, watching as the burning Karve fades behind the thick fog of early autumn.





	1. August 21, 1238

**Author's Note:**

> This short fic examines loyalty as one of Nicole’s main character traits. Loyalty is probably the only ambiguous virtue – when applied to people, organizations, or groups who we disagree with or who history judged as contemptible, we are quick to call it _misguided_ or _misplaced_ (have you ever heard of _misplaced courage_ or _misguided kindness_?).  
> Nicole is fiercely loyal in canon and it borders on misguided at times – the most cringe-worthy moment that comes to mind was her readiness to shoot Wynonna at the goo’ified Waverly’s command.  
> -  
> There will be plenty of history and Norse culture/mythology references in the background – I’ve decided not to expand on it in the A/Ns this time. If you feel like you, dear reader, would like to know more about something specific, or the whole historical setting in general, leave a comment and I will gladly go back and leave a brief A/N in the following chapters.  
> -  
> Enjoy!

_ August 21, 1238 _

_Skagafjörður, The Icelandic Commonwealth_

Nicole stands on a rocky outcrop, looking out over the horizon at the retreating army of the Sturlungs. After killing both of their leaders in battle, her people are not pursuing the enemy, enjoying the view of their backs instead, as they scramble through the treacherous and meandering waters of the Héraðsvötn River delta.

 _May goddess_ _Jörð assist our cause today, letting nature take many more lives of the Sturlungs._

Adrenaline leaving her body, Nicole cannot stand upright on her own and is forced to use her long sword to support herself with. Her maroon woolen overtunic is ripped in multiple places –revealing a linen undershirt – all soaked in blood from minor lacerations and a deeper gash to her midsection. One of her puttee wrappings came undone in a skirmish and is now dragging behind her leg like an absurd, muddy roll of bandage.

Her heavy, round wooden shield is weighing her down; she cannot hang it over her shoulder in fear of worsening her injuries, yet still, she refuses to discard it. After receiving numerous blows with swords and axes alike, Nicole is certain the shield is useless now, but the sentimental value of it drives her to cling to it.

Just as Nicole takes off her helmet – now sporting a broken nose guard – a wind gush hits her face, causing both her long red hair and her sapphire blue woolen cloak to flutter behind her. Nicole is certain she looks the part of a fearless warrior and a valiant leader in this very moment, even if she feels anything but. The Skagafjörður valley unfurling before her is scattered with the wounded and the dying, their agonizing cries imprinting in her memory, causing as much damage as the physical wounds she’s received.

She has never seen a battle this large, this brutal, and there is no doubt in Nicole’s mind that her people will look up to her for guidance, strength, and true grit following the atrocities of today; and so she stands there, tall and proud, projecting everything and anything her people may need. Even if her stomach is queasy, even if she feels faint with blood loss, she will remain a beacon for her people.

To her left, Nicole sees the army of her allies – the clan of Haukdælirs – still standing, after a successful flanking maneuver that defeated the enemy. Attempting to exercise the element of surprise, the Sturlungs attacked at dawn. Thanks to the shrewd employment of military tactics though – tactics she’s learned from her father’s stories of his past battles and raids – the battle was resolved in her favor within an hour. 

On any other occasion, Nicole would have remembered this morning for its unseasonably warm weather, with cloudless blue skies framing the endless green valley of the river delta, flanked by birch forests climbing the fjord slopes and whispering soothingly with a rustle of leaves in the wind. Today, however, the river flows red and the dark elves – the Dökkálfar – will have their filling, sucking on the blood-soaked soils of the valley.

Nicole is relieved to see her two closest advisors and dear friends, Erik and Haldor, make their way towards her. Based on appearance alone, Erik could be Nicole’s twin brother – he is as tall and lean as her, his red hair kept in a long fashion similar to hers. As much as they are alike in looks, they differ in character – Erik is the mischievous, jovial jokester to Nicole’s composed, introspective self; a Loki to her Thor. Nicole notices that Erik is barefooted – a fate that was met by many warriors today who lost their leather shoes to the muddy soils of the river delta. Except for the missing shoes, a bloody nose, and a bit of a limp to his right leg, Erik appears to be largely unharmed. 

Opposite to both Nicole’s and Erik’s slender frames, Haldor’s height, an impressive beard, and his massive – and inexplicably exposed – torso, make him resemble a bear more than a man. Nicole saw him swinging an axe on the battlefield today and it was no wonder that image alone frightened many a warrior and caused them to flee in utter terror. As much as Nicole believes that goddess Freyja led her hand in battle today, there is no question in her mind that Haldor was guided by Thor himself. His platinum blonde hair twisted in intricate braids and pulled back off of his face transformed Haldor into a spitting image of the god of thunder, son of Odin. 

Once they reach her, Erik pulls Nicole into a tight hug, “Thank Freyja you’re alive and well!”

Nicole hisses, as the embrace aggravates her injuries. Erik takes a step back, grabs her shoulders, and keeps her at an arm’s length, “ _Are_ you well?”

“I am truly pleased to see you alive – both of you,” Nicole decides to ignore the question for now. Looking over the horizon at the diminishing figures of their enemies, she continues, “It appears the Sturlungs’ retreat was not feigned. Call for the end of the battle, Haldor.”

Seemingly not happy with Nicole’s evasion, Haldor grudgingly obliges and signals the end of the battle on his footlong blowing horn.

At the sound of victory, joyous cheers, yells, and roars erupt from hundreds of people left standing in the valley, combined with a simultaneous thudding of fists, spears, axes, and swords banging against their shields without a common rhythm. Many chant her given title as the local chieftain – gyðia. Others offer their thanks to the deities. The celebration is short and soon the ruckus dies down, people gathering themselves and their fellow wounded men- and women-at-arms to make a short trek back to the burg, back home.

People’s attention turned away from her, Nicole allows Haldor to take her sword and shield, while Erik throws her arm over his shoulder to support her weight. He’s still limping and shoeless, bracing wounded Nicole, while Haldor carries all their weapons and armor. They make a sorry procession, Nicole thinks – three great leaders of the northern farthings hobbling slowly like pregnant seals crawling on a beach. 

They reach Nicole’s longhouse – the largest structure in the burg due to her status, which not only houses her, her household, and her thralls, but also acts as a meeting place for the local assembly and provides shelter during religious ceremonies and feasts Nicole is obligated to host. Haldor deposits their gear outside the house and opens the wooden door for the limping duo to enter. 

Nicole is surprised to find all the fires inside extinguished and an unusual eerie silence enveloping the main hall, which typically throbs with a cacophony of daily tasks, laughter, and gossip. She hears a quiet whimpering from above and realizes that the thralls and women who decided to stay behind must have sought refuge in the loft. Normally, she would beckon them down gently and offer words of encouragement but the blood loss forces her to leave this delicate task to Haldor, as she angles for her chambers. 

“Get the women down,” spoken through gritted teeth, is all the direction she has the energy to give him. Despite Haldor’s bearish appearance – especially today, as his exposed chest is smeared with blood and mud – he truly is a gentle giant and she does not hesitate to leave him in charge of consoling and calming the frightened people.

Once they reach Nicole’s chambers, Erik deposits her on a side bench covered with a fur, hugging the left wall of the room. Her next orders come immediately, as if she were in charge of a large army her whole life, “Send all the thralls and any other unharmed people to tend to the wounded.”

“What about you, gyðia? Your tunic is stained through with the color of our hair.”

“Tend to the people first, and only then send Bathild to assist me. I’m in no imminent danger and shall stay motionless and compress the flesh to stave off the bleeding. Go now,” Nicole dismisses Erik, who seems to waver for a split second before bowing his head deferentially and heading back to the great hall.

Left alone, Nicole gingerly lifts up the bottom of her overtunic and the undershirt to take a closer look at her wound. It’s a long horizontal slash to the left side of her abdomen, its edges rough enough that Nicole is certain it will leave a hideous scar.

Her father, Kolbeinn the Hot, taught her how to deal with sword and axe wounds, and – for the first time in her life – Nicole applies this knowledge now, holding the wound as closed as possible, while never actually touching the damaged flesh. Her father’s life was much more tumultuous, more violent and gory, and Nicole had always hoped that with him gone and the title of gyðia now in her hands, their people would never have to know the horrors of a battlefield. The deities of fate – Norns – had a different plan for Nicole and her farthing, though. Apparently, you needn’t be a warmonger yourself for the battle to come to your doorstep.

“Nicole of the Ásbirnings, I send my thanks to Freyja for keeping you safe.” Nicole’s thoughts of her father are interrupted by the chieftain of her allies. As he opens the door to her chamber, a soft hum of Bathild’s voice directing people on what supplies to ready to assist the wounded enters with him. A familiar fragrance of burning wood tells Nicole that Bathild has also already started the fires in the main hall.

“Gissur of the Haukdælirs, good to see you are well.” She makes a move to get up and greet the older man as the custom dictates but even at his age, Gissur is faster than her and places a heavy hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. Nicole tries not to grimace at the pain caused by her body being ever so slightly jostled.

“No need to stand on ceremony, young gyðia.” Gissur clasps her forearm in greeting. He pulls up a stool to sit by her prone form resting on the side bench. “Today marks a day when you become my equal, as your father once was. Your tactical ingenuity and courageous actions on the battlefield contributed greatly to our victory. Two great northern clans united against a common enemy yet again.” 

Nicole is glad she’s numbed with pain and desensitized by the battle, as she is certain she’d spoil the image of a valiant warrior with emotional tears upon hearing Gissur’s commendation. “Have you any reports from the battlefield?” she asks in lieu of answering his compliments. 

“The casualties were being counted as I decided to pay you a visit.”

“What of Sighvatur’s sons? I have seen his lifeless body swallowed by mud but if any of his sons survived the battle then I’m afraid of the future vengeful attacks,” Nicole’s brow furrows in worry.

“All four of his sons perished, including the warmonger, Sturla.”

Nicole nods solemnly in response.

“Ha!” after a short pause he slaps his lap jovially, yet Nicole cannot perceive anything amusing about the situation. “To think that the muddy delta is the final resting ground of Sighvatur –  _a great goðar of the western farthing_ ,” he says in a mocking tone. “A filthy lapdog of the king of Norway,” punctuating his disdain, Gissur spits on the floor. “I’m sure his brother Snorri will immortalize him and today’s battle in one of his sagas!” 

Taking a good look at Gissur, Nicole does everything in her power to conceal her surprise at his words. The information she still intermittently procures from her people who married into the Haukdælirs – into Gissur’s clan – have indicated several recent visits from the Norwegian dignitaries in his farthing. Rumor has it that Gissur himself is a leather sash of gold away from accepting a position of a vassal to the Norwegian king. In its 300 winters of history, the independence of the Icelandic Commonwealth has never been as acutely endangered as it is now, with the Sturlungs swearing fealty to the king of Norway and several other goði following in their steps.

Trying to ascertain where his loyalties may lie, she says, inclining her head in conviction, “I do hope that our victory today will pave a way for peace to follow. This bloody civil war, a fratricidal war that is sure to be a stain on Icelandic consciousness for centuries to come, needs to end soon. Our people have been peaceful for many generations now – let’s not allow an image of a brute Viking warrior to prevail and supplant that of a real Icelander.”

He studies her pointedly. For a split second, Nicole is certain that comment will cost her dearly. Bleeding and alone in her chamber, with most of the villagers and thralls either wounded themselves or else occupied with helping the injured, Nicole’s weary brain sees no escape of this predicament. All it would take is a mindfully placed slice of Gissur’s short sax, leaving everybody convinced she died from her wounds. She silently curses Haldor for leaving their weapons outside the doors. 

“Ah, you mustn’t say that, young gyðia, for you will anger Odin, the god of war. The blood of the courageous and bold Vikings throbs in your veins, just as it did in your father’s,” his mouth stretches into an unnerving grin. “Your father was a mighty warrior, evidence of which you can see to this day around you in the riches of your halls and in the thralls that work your fields. He and I were an unstoppable force on our _expeditions_. I wish I knew why he had decided against joining me after our last voyage to the coast of Bretland 15 winters ago.” 

Gissur’s nostalgic rumination of the times of brutal raids is interrupted by Erik, who strolls in confidently with a new pair of leather shoes adorning his feet, accompanied by Bathild, the de facto ruler of Nicole’s household.

“Take Bathild, for instance – one of your father’s most valued spoils from that expedition,” Gissur continues unperturbed with a wolfish smile, eyeing the woman like a fine breed of a cow displayed for sale at the market on Sunnudagr.

To her credit, Bathild doesn’t respond to the baiting, although as a free woman she has every right to defend her honor – it has been five winters since Nicole’s father granted her her freedom. 

Erik tries to diffuse the tension setting over them like a thick layer of smoke in a longhouse, “I’ve come with news…” when a young woman interrupts him, throwing herself at Nicole’s feet. She didn’t even see her hiding behind Bathild’s back and she scolds herself for being so reckless today. Just because the battle was won does not mean there are no spies or assassins lurking in the burg for an opportune moment to strike. 

“Oh my god, you’re okay!” The girl looks at her with relief and adoration.

Standing up, Gissur brandishes his sax from its sheath not a second later. Fast on his feet, Erik drags the girl away from Nicole, frantically searching for a concealed weapon. A moment of chaotic commotion ensues before Bathild interferes, “Please, my gyðia, the girl was frightened and is only relieved to see our chieftain alive and well. She meant no disrespect.” 

“Erik, let her be,” she orders. “What’s your name, girl?” Nicole prides herself with knowing the names of every villager and every thrall in her burg and the surrounding settlements, yet she can’t procure her name or even place her face.

And Nicole would certainly remember that face.

A shadow of surprise, then sorrow, cross the woman’s face. “It’s me – Waverly. Nicole, don’t you…” she seems to be pleading for something, yet her impertinent words are quickly corrected by Erik. 

“You shall never address your gyðia by her first name, thrall!” he slaps her on the face and places himself in front of Nicole protectively. 

The girl recoils from the blow and cradles her face. Her eyes fill with tears and she seems equally frightened, astonished, and betrayed. Removing her hand, she looks down at it with bewilderment – Erik’s ring left a bleeding welt on her left cheekbone, which already started to swell. Clearly, Bathild was correct in her assessment – even if insolent in her words, the woman in front of Nicole is anything but a threat. She meets Nicole’s eyes, silently pleading and indubitably disoriented, seemingly on the verge of speaking up again.

A new wave of exhaustion and faintness overcomes Nicole. Removing everybody from her chambers before the woman has another chance to speak seams the best course of action. “Erik, that’s enough. Leave me with Bathild.”

Erik looks back at her – she must look exceptionally unwell, as he doesn’t even offer a playful jab or words of dissent, before grabbing the woman by her upper arm and dragging her outside. She looks surprised at the rough handling and tries to wrestle her arm away from his hold.

Nicole closes her eyes and hopes the woman won’t aggravate Erik any further. He is a patient man but even his patience must be thin after the events of the battle – especially his patience for an insolent thrall. The girl must either be insane or extremely brave to display so many flavors of disobedience in such a short time. At any rate, her fiery disposition has certainly drawn Nicole’s curiosity. 

“Tonight, we shall feast. I will send a hunting party out as to not overwhelm your burg’s stores,” Gissur says on his way out. Captivated by the unfamiliar woman and lost in thought, Nicole didn’t even notice he was still in her chamber. 

With the doors closed, Bathild busies herself with starting the fire in the middle of Nicole’s chamber. “The news Erik wanted to share with you, gyðia, was that of the battle’s casualties. They counted 49 bodies of the Sturlungs and only six of ours – all from the Haukdælirs clan. There is one more boy, no more than 14 winters old, with such a ghastly head wound that I am expecting him to pass to Valhalla or Fólkvangr by morrow’s sunrise.”

Only six – well, seven – dead and none from her clan? Nicole knows she shouldn’t be elated, yet the news is simply too excellent considering how violent the battle was, although she’s certain Gissur will think otherwise. If her health allows, she will have to offer a blót sacrifice to Freyja and say a prayer to the victorious Christ god during tonight’s feast.

As Bathlid moves to set an iron cauldron over the fire and fills it with water, Nicole’s curiosity gets the better of her. “Where is that girl from, Bathild? I don’t recall seeing her around.”

“Waverly? She was given to you by goðar Gissur, alongside other gifts as a tribute to aiding him in defenses against the Sturlungs,” Bathild responds, not once looking up at her, engrossed in the task at hand.

“Waverly,” Nicole tastes the name on her tongue. “Was she brought here from Bretland?”

“I don’t yet know her history, my gyðia.” Bathlid considers her, thinking carefully, “Although she did appear to understand what we were saying, as we took shelter in the loft this morning. I do not believe she is of any threat, gyðia, if it still troubles you.”

“No, no. I was just curious about an unfamiliar face, that’s all,” Nicole is quick to correct Bathild’s assumption. Her eagerness and an unfortunate choice of words earn her a solitary raised brow from a woman who essentially brought her up after her mother died in childbirth when she was but three winters old. 

Nicole hasn’t felt that drawn to another person since her last lover passed away four winters ago. She tries to blame it on the blood loss, the elation she feels at having survived the battle, and the novelty of seeing a new face in her burg.

Interrupting her musings, Bathild approaches the bench she is propped on, knees down, and moves to uncover the wound Nicole is still clutching. Bathild’s face distorts in a repulsed yet compassionate grimace. “There’s not much left to do but cauterize that wound, my gyðia.” She shakes her head in reprimand, “You should have allowed me to see to it earlier.” Getting back up, Bathild points at the door, “I will get Erik and Haldor to hold you down and will bring some lard to help heal the flesh. Drink some of this mead – may it cloud your mind for what is to come.” She hands Nicole a wooden cup filled to the brim with the golden liquid.

~

Nicole bites a thick leather belt with all her might, as a burning red metal edge of a sax presses against her wound. A white flash of pain, comparable to nothing else she’s ever experienced, shoots through her body. She vaguely registers the odor of burning flesh before everything goes blank, all thoughts of pain and the intriguing young woman extinguished as a cod liver lamp when the oil burns out.


	2. December 21, 2016

_ December 21, 2016 _

_Purgatory, Montanada_

Falling through perfect darkness, Waverly can feel her body spin each and every way. Or at least, she assumes she’s _falling_ , if the downward force vaguely resembling gravity is anything to go by. All this tumbling is starting to make her queasy, and so she counts backwards from a hundred to calm her stomach. In Latin.

Suddenly, a force yanks her to the right. She’s spit out forcefully and tumbles on a forest floor. Face down on the icy ground, Waverly pants in short breaths and closes her eyes. It could have been worse – at least the mud beneath her body is frozen. Her stomach disagrees, and Waverly gets on all fours hastily. She doesn’t make it two paces away before she vomits violently, retching and dry-heaving until there is nothing left but air and an acrid aftertaste.

“Hey, I’m here, baby girl.” She hears Wynonna whisper and feels a comforting hand stroking her back. 

A plastic bottle of water appears in her periphery and her eyes follow it up a strong arm to Dolls’ face. She sends him a challenging and defiant look.

“That’s all we’ve got, Waverly. Nobody thought of grabbing your Klean Kanteen, as we rushed out after receiving Wynonna’s call at BBD. You need to hydrate,” Dolls’ tone is soothing but it’s clearly a command and so Waverly begrudgingly complies and takes the bottle from his hand. 

Shifting gracelessly from her hands and knees to sit down, Waverly takes a sip of water and looks around to get her bearings back – judging by the decrepit arch right in front of her, they’re in the woods, just outside of the Ghost River Triangle. Naked poplars line what was once a road in and out of town; beyond them, the rolling hills, covered with dead, yellow grass, obscure Purgatory. Even though it’s painfully familiar, the wintery landscape is not what Waverly remembers seeing last…

_Nicole._  

Closing her eyes as a ferocious wave of memories crashes onto the shore of her mind, she has to swallow to prevent another surge of nausea – not caused by the physical tumbling this time. She looks down at herself and sees a pair of brown boots, tight blue jeans, and a coat, not the scratchy blue woolen dress and the pointy-toe leather shoes she remembers wearing not too long ago. 

“What happened?” she whispers and hears her voice break, as her throat constricts.

Wynonna and Dolls, crouched next to her, exchange a look that is not lost on Waverly. “After I… uhm… After Willa died, Nicole saved me from the tentacle monster, but it sucked her through the portal. You rushed here as soon as you learned,” Wynonna says quietly. “Do you remember that, baby girl?”

“And then… I…” Waverly looks at her fingers in disbelief. “Oh god, I touched the goo, didn’t I? I touched it and the portal opened again,” she points at the black circle, swirling menacingly opposite the gate. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening,” rubbing her forehead and rocking her body, she mutters to herself.

“I know it’s hard. Just try to breathe,” her sister whispers. 

Waverly’s eyes fill with tears and she throws herself into Wynonna’s arms, for comfort, for strength.

“Do you remember where you were taken, Waves?” Jeremy asks, standing a few steps away.

Thank god Jeremy is there too. She hadn’t noticed him before, but he’ll help her figure it out. He’ll help them save Nicole. 

She sniffles and wipes her nose on her coat’s sleeve. “I uhm… I was sucked into some sort of a parallel universe, I think? Like a nightmarish… medieval… fantasy world,” she frowns. “Nicole… Nicole was there too, but she didn’t recognize me,” Waverly pauses to collect herself and not break down in tears again.

With a soft hand on her shoulder, Wynonna examines her face, “Did she do that to you?” The question is whispered gently, but Waverly can clearly see the resolute wall of steel and the burning anger building in her sister’s eyes. 

She reflexively touches her cheek and hisses when her fingers meet the gash. Eyes large, Waverly rushes to correct, “No, no. It wasn’t Nicole. She’d never…” but she stops, frowning, not sure that she knows enough about _this Nicole_ to make such definite statements.

“You said a medieval fantasy world – can you elaborate? What did you see, exactly? The buildings, the scenery? Anything that you remember might be useful,” Dolls asks helpfully after a minute of heavy silence, pulling her mind away from obsessing about this barbaric version of Nicole. 

“Right,” Waverly collects herself in response to Dolls’ matter-of-fact tone. “I was in a long wooden house – a longhouse, I suppose,” she realizes. “We were in an attic, where hundreds of fish were hang-drying,” scrunching her nose, Waverly continues, “as were numerous bundles of herbs. Downstairs… there was an elongated fire hearth running through this one large room.” Waverly grows quiet, thinking how the place had a particular smell, musky and smoky, even when the fires were not burning. 

“Could you tell what language people around you spoke?” Jeremy urges her on. 

Trying to concentrate, her brows pulled, Waverly says, “Yeah… I could understand and inexplicably even speak their languages. There was a battle close by, and when I hid with the women up in the attic, a lot of the servants spoke… not quite modern English but it wasn’t Anglisc either…”

“So Middle English, probably?” Jeremy chimes in.

“Yeah. Yeah, probably,” Waverly quickly agrees. “The people of higher status spoke Old Norse I think… And so did Nicole…”

“Norse, as in Viking?” Wynonna asks and snorts. “Ha! I bet she fits right in with that flaming red hair of hers!”

Dolls sends her a reproaching look, and to her credit, Wynonna appears properly chastised. He turns to Waverly, evidently surprised, “Nicole was a part of their society?”

“She was… I don’t know… A warlord, maybe? As they walked inside after the battle, she looked terrifying, guys. Blood running down her face and her torso, she barked out an order to get the women down… The way she said that… as if they were all her property, it made my skin crawl... They called her something that sounded like a title… _githia_ …”

“Githia? Jeremy, can you check on that? Along with the other information Waverly provided, it may give us a clue as to what it is we’re dealing with,” always a step ahead, Dolls asks.

“We have to go back and bring her back before the portal closes,” Waverly looks back at the ominous black hole, nearly missing another confused look exchanged between Wynonna and Dolls.

“You’re not going anywhere before we figure out where this hellish hole sucked you into. And I can’t believe I’m going to say it, but we need a plan of attack, baby girl. Let’s get back to the Black Badge office,” her sister says, helping her up to her feet. 

Waverly wants to scream and fight, wants to go back for Nicole, but she’s physically and emotionally exhausted. For the first time in her life, she also has to admit that Wynonna might be right.

~ 

Waverly rests her forehead against the cool window of Wynonna’s truck, trying to focus on anything else but the image of Nicole covered in blood, slouching carelessly on a fur-covered bench. The only words Nicole spoke to her are playing on repeat in her brain, like a broken record, “ _What’s your name, girl? What’s your name, girl? What’s your name, girl?_ ” She wants to simultaneously cry in grief and scream in rage. 

“How long have I been gone?” She decides to ask her sister instead. Wynonna has given her space and the ride back to town has been peacefully quiet. Too quiet. 

“Just a couple of hours.”

“So about as long as I spent there…” Waverly remarks, still glued to the window. Establishing the speed of time passing in a parallel universe is important. It _must be_ important.

“Waves… Talk to me.” Wynonna steals a glance her way. “I see that something is bothering you – something more than Nicole simply missing. If it was just that you’d be in a full research and planning mode… So, what is it, baby girl?”

Waverly sighs and straightens in her seat. Looking straight ahead through the front windshield, although not really registering anything outside, she says in a voice she hardly recognizes as her own – resigned and disheartened, “She didn’t know who I was, Wyn. She looked straight at me and there wasn’t even a sliver of recognition in her eyes, as if… as if I was a nobody to her…” Sighing, she continues, “The way I was dressed like the rest of the slaves – _slaves_ , Wynonna – I probably was a _nobody_ … When we were hiding in the attic, this older woman was trying to calm and prepare the younger girls. She told the stories of how they were captured on the British coast by a Viking raiding party 15 years ago. How they learned to hide from the belligerent men, especially immediately after a battle.” Waverly feels a few tears flow down her cheeks and she wipes them off hastily, angrily. “How could Nicole allow that sort of thing – any of it? And the way she looked… God, it’s not only all the blood and grime she was covered with. There was something different in the way she carried herself and the way she interacted with others, like… like she was better than everybody else…”

“Well, she’s always had a stick up her ass,” her sister tries to make a joke, inappropriate as always. 

“Wynonna, I’m serious!” 

“I know, baby girl,” she whispers. “I know. And we’ll figure it out. We have Dolls’ tactical background, Jeremy’s scientific skills, and your brains, Waves. And if all fails, we have my big ass gun.” Wynonna parks the truck in front of the Purgatory police department building and looks at her, “We’ll figure it out.”

~

Passing by the bullpen, Waverly catches herself stealing a glance at Nicole’s desk, fully expecting to be met by warm brown eyes and a dimpled smile, only to be crushed a second later when the reality settles back in. She blinks to repel the tears that don’t seem to be any closer to staying at bay than they did an hour ago outside of the Ghost River Triangle boundary.

As they enter the BBD office, Waverly notices Jeremy pinning a couple of photographs to a new board in the front of the room. A box of donuts and a warm cup of earl grey materialize in front of her, and she sends a small, grateful smile towards Dolls.

“Jeremy? Fill us in,” Dolls commands. 

“Right,” Standing in the middle of the room and wringing his hands nervously, Jeremy begins pointing at a printed drawing on the board. “Githia – a female form of gothar – was a chieftain and sort of a priest. The title was not permanent nor inherited, and they had to constantly prove themselves through a combination of respect, honor, influence, and wealth…” he looks around the room to make sure he didn’t lose anyone so far. “From the little information you gave me, I think we’re looking at Iceland, circa 10th – 13th century.”

Waverly frowns and looks at him doubtfully. “Are you sure? When I walked outside to assist with the wounded, I could clearly see hills covered with trees – isn’t Iceland quite bare?”

“It is now but only because it was deforested for firewood and grazing land over time. The deforestation continued well into the 20th century,” Jeremy explains.

“And what about the people who spoke Middle English? Why would there be such a large population of Brits in Iceland?” Waverly can see in her periphery Wynonna’s head pivoting from her to Jeremy as if it was a tennis match. 

“Well…” He looks over the room, uncertain. “Iceland was settled by the Vikings but they raided mainland Europe as well as the British Islands for loot, as much as for the slaves – or _thralls_ , which is an Old Norse word that was important enough that it carried over to our modern vocabulary. Genetically speaking, modern Icelanders are 60% British in the maternal lineage and 75% Scandinavian in the paternal line.”

Wynonna screws her face in disgust, catching the implication, “That’s fucking horrendous.”

Waverly has to nod in agreement.

Dolls walks around the table to the board. “Are you saying that we’re not dealing with a parallel universe but rather with time travel?”

Jeremy nods eagerly, “ _I most certainly am, Filby, the Editor, sir,_ ” he dorks out in a terrible attempt at an English accent, referencing H. G. Wells’ character but becomes somber immediately after his eyes land on Waverly. “Shit. I am… I’m sorry.” He looks down at his feet.

“No, Jeremy. It’s… it’s fine. Uhm… So you’re sure I was sucked into medieval Scandinavia, huh?” Waverly asks him instead. 

“Yep. It makes the most sense.”

“I don’t know if it makes _the most_ sense…” Wynonna interrupts around a bite of a donut she stole from the box placed in front of Waverly.

Dolls doesn’t even conceal the eyeroll at Wynonna’s antics anymore. “Okay. We have the _where_. Now, what about the _how_? Do you have anything on how the portal was opened again after the winter solstice ended?”

“Not really,” Jeremy shrugs. “I mean, we know that Waverly touching the black goo made her somehow connected with the past where Nicole was sent to. Nobody can see the portal except for Waverly, so I have…”

“Wait, you guys _can’t see_ the portal?” Waverly is taken aback. In the back of her mind, the plan forward was always to gather the cavalry, march back into that hellish universe guns blazing, and force Nicole to come back with them, if need be. But what if she’s the only one with a tether to it now?

_This can’t be happening_ , comes back as a mantra.

Seeing everybody’s downturned expressions vexes Waverly’s already fried nerves. “Okay, everyone. Stop walking on eggshells! I know Nicole is gone and there’s a really piss-poor chance that we’re gonna save her, okay? But can we all just act like we’re winning for once?” She continues hopefully, looking from her sister to Dolls to Jeremy and back again, “We can just have you guys touch the goo too, right? This way you can bring the Peacemaker with you, Wynonna. And Dolls… Dolls can bring his top-secret BBD riffles… and…”

“Waves…” Wynonna interrupts, shaking her head. 

“The density of the goo increased the second you crossed through the portal, Waverly. The thing pretty much solidified on the spot,” Jeremy hands her two perfectly smooth glossy pebbles that look like vitrified black glass. “I don’t know how the portal works or if you’ll even be able to go back again – I registered a peak in ionizing radiation with my Geiger counter after you were sucked in but it’s been steadily declining, suggesting that it may be closing.”

Even before Jeremy is done with his explanation, Waverly starts shaking her head emphatically. “I have to go back there. I _will_ go back.”

She almost wants to blow up at Dolls again for sending her a pitying look.

“How did you get back to the present, Waverly? Was there also a portal on the other side?”

Closing her eyes, Waverly tries to recall how she started falling back through the black hole. “I don’t really know,” she says with a frown. “One minute I was being dragged outside Nicole’s room, thinking how much I’d rather be back home, and the next thing I know, I was back in the forest outside of the Ghost River Triangle.”

Dolls nods, clearly thinking of the best course of action. Jeremy nervously rearranges the pictures and reference materials he’s printed out so far.

Spotting one specific photo of the vitrified goo on the forest ground, Waverly asks, “You can try melting it, right? Or analyze it and try to synthesize it from scratch in a liquid form?”

“Yeah, I’ll keep trying, Waves, but melting it didn’t work so far – I’ll have to contact a lab with access to metallurgical furnaces.” Waverly recognizes his apologetic, quiet tone as an admission of a defeat. 

Only half listening to Jeremy and anxiously looking through the cluttered pile of printed materials on the table, jittery and on edge, Waverly is done with his excuses, “Jesus, Jeremy. How can you even work like that?!” Not a second later has her regretting her outburst, as she accidentally knocks his favorite coffee cup off the table. It shatters to pieces. 

“Oh my god, your Optimug Prime!” 

 “It’s okay. It’s not important. It’s just a mug,” he assures her in a calm, steady tone. “I’m basically a genius. I can fix it.”

“But what if you can’t? Wynonna, what if he can’t?” The persistent tears are back again, and Waverly knows that she’s crying about much more than a broken mug. She looks to her sister, seeking support and encouragement. If Jeremy can’t help her save Nicole, then who will? 

“He can. We will,” Wynonna responds with so much conviction that Waverly believes her, if only for a split second. Then she remembers the time when they were little and Wynonna talked her into going sledding with her and Willa down the old landfill heap, convincing her it was perfectly safe. Waverly spent the rest of that winter with her arm in a cast.

Seeing the doubt on Waverly’s face, her sister lowers her voice and tries to assure her once more, “We all love Nicole, baby girl. And there is no way in hell we’re leaving her all alone out there.”

Grateful for Wynonna’s encouragement yet simultaneously keenly aware of the reality of their situation and the limited options they have left, Waverly nods and wipes off her face. Walking towards the door of the BBD office, she offers, seeing three concerned faces watching her leave, “I just need some air.” 

~ 

Waverly sits in Nicole’s office chair and looks at the chaotic organization of the woman’s desk. There are sticky notes glued to all sorts of surfaces, several reports sitting unfinished, and a half-empty cup of coffee Waverly brought her two days ago, before everything went to shit. She looks into the top drawer of the desk and discovers a photograph of the two of them on one of their first dates – _who even prints out photos anymore_?! It was long before Nicole knew anything about the Earp curse, before they found Willa. It was when Waverly could still pretend around Nicole that she was just a regular girl with an overprotective older sister and a messed-up family history.

The picture shows them standing on the stairs of the Purgatory City Library, Waverly’s face split in a carefree grin, while Nicole looks down at her with uninhibited adoration, snow falling gently around them. Nicole took her to a free screening of a documentary on translation errors that carried throughout centuries in ancient texts, from the Greek myths to the Bible, and the implications those mistranslated words had on the society throughout history. The movie was fascinating to Waverly, and she couldn’t believe how thoughtful it was of Nicole, and how nervous, how inexplicably insecure she was in selecting _that_ as the activity for their date. Waverly clearly remembers that as the moment she realized she was falling in love with Nicole.

Mind made up, she looks around, making sure no one is paying her any attention, folds the picture, and stuffs it in her bra. She looks through the rest of the drawers, finding only a tube of Neosporin to be of any use, and hides it in her bra as well.

Vaguely remembering that her breasts were comfortably supported by her favorite bra in the _other world_ , even when her outer clothes changed, Waverly prays it will work. She quickly scribbles a note to Wynonna and drives back to the forest, where the portal still swirls open for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know – I’m bending canon to my will. At the end of S1, after Wynonna shot Willa, we see Doc with the Earp sisters; Dolls was captured by BBD at that point, we haven’t met Jeremy yet, and Nicole is presumably resting after getting shot in the ribs. 
> 
> As for the history, I used Jeremy to explain a bit of it in this chapter but below is a more in-depth description of where/when Nicole was sucked into:  
>   
> The term **Shield-maiden** is used in Scandinavian mythology to describe a female warrior. There are some historical accounts, as well as multiple legends and myths accounted for in the sagas, describing women fighting alongside men. Since Scandinavian burial included leaving tools a person used in life for their afterlife, archeologists now sometimes find female skeletons buried with swords and shields – although there still is a discussion of how common and acceptable it really was in their society.
> 
> Mid-13th century Iceland was marked by a violent internal conflict between the most powerful clans, which pretty much controlled the country. This time period is often referred to as the **“Age of the Sturlungs”** from the name of one of the warmongering clans. They became vassals to the King of Norway, who wanted to incorporate Iceland into his domain.  
> The battle described here was The Battle of Örlygsstaðir in Skagafjörður, northern Iceland – the largest, most bloody battle to ever happen on the Icelandic soil. The battle was won, and the Sturlungs were dealt a decisive defeat. Nevertheless, partially because of all the infighting, Iceland fell into the Norwegian hands by 1264.
> 
> The more interesting bit here is the cultural background – Vikings settled the island of Iceland between the years 874 and 930. By the 13th century, most Icelanders led peaceful farming lives. The time of brutal raids of mainland Europe and the British islands has long passed. Yet, the mythos of a sword-swinging Viking invader is what remained in the collective subconsciousness, and it was only further reinforced by Hollywood.  
>   
> As a fun fact, Viking helmets had a nose guard but didn’t have the horns that the movies so love to give them.


	3. August 21, 1238

_ August 21, 1238 _

_Skagafjörður, The Icelandic Commonwealth_

Nicole wakes up slowly, groggy and disoriented. She had the strangest dreams – dreams of a place covered in snow as much as her farthing is in the winter months, yet full of massive buildings made of solid stone, carts propelled without a horse, and peculiarly dressed people. One person – one particular woman – seems to have played a central role in all of her dreams… _Waverly_.

Trying to loosen a painful kink in her neck, Nicole notices a fire burning in the middle of her chamber. She looks around herself to discover she slept on the side bench, instead of her own bed, which would explain the tension in her back. Gingerly lifting a clean undertunic up her torso, she sees a bandage covering most of her abdomen and so she sighs, preparing for the pain of moving around the burg with a cauterized wound of this size. 

The chatter and laughter filter through her closed door uninhibited now, and Nicole suspects she must have slept long enough that the preparations for the evening feast are well underway. The heavenly smells of roasted meats find her nostrils solidifying her suspicions, while her grumbling stomach forces her up to her feet. She carefully throws a blue overtunic on and shuffles out the door.

The main hall of her longhouse is filled with women milling about the long center hearth, which is being used to cook flatbread on the skillets placed directly in the fire and to heat six large cauldrons hanging from the main beam. From the smell of it, Nicole guesses the cauldrons must be filled with stews of meats, cabbage, and leak. Her mouth waters.

Women who first notice her presence quiet quickly and lower their heads deferentially as she walks past them. She’s glad Bathild is not in the main hall, as Nicole would likely get an earful for getting up and walking around on her own. 

Outside, countless large fires burn bright and high, and meats of reindeers, a couple of seals, and even a polar bear roast on splits. Gissur’s men must have been busy hunting as she slept – most meats in her burg’s stores were already preserved by smoking, drying, or by cooking in sour whey for the winter.

Her feet carry her towards the joyous celebrations that have already begun on the outskirts of the burg – except for a couple of makeshift tables, reserved for the clan leaders, most people who participated in the battle gather in circles around the fires.

Walking up to a long table set up in the center of the crowd, Nicole is greeted by Erik, Haldor, and Gissur. “Your gyðia has graced us with her presence!” Gissur hollers to a round of loud cheers from the crowd.

Nicole sits down on the bench next to Erik and allows the men to continue their conversation (which already sounds like an exaggerated version of this morning’s events), as she studies the people. The crowd is massive, easily counting 1,000 heads, most of whom aren’t trained warriors. They rose to the occasion, grabbing whatever farming implements they could get their hands on in the commotion of the early morning attack. Now, they feast and drink, joking and carefree, although many carry battle wounds. The tables are full to the brim with wild fruits of apples and berries, a multitude of cheeses, smoked fish, flatbreads, the roasted meats hunted earlier in the day, and the steaming bowls of stew. Her happiness at seeing them imbibe so freely is bottomless; she grabs a drinking horn to fill it with ale and swallows it greedily to mask the tears that filled her eyes.

As the evening continues and the sun sets over the western fjord, the celebration slowly turns rowdier. Close to her table, a small crowd gathers around two men who engage in a silly drinking game Nicole remembers fondly from being a child – after drinking a full horn of ale, each man is expected to come up with a verse of poetry, insulting his opponent, while boasting about his own achievements. With several horns of ale consumed, the competition becomes highly entertaining to the onlookers, as both men struggle just to sit upright, not to mention to deliver a scathing and clever riposte.

With her hunger and thirst satiated, and even though she’s enjoying herself surrounded by the joyous laughter, Nicole feels her energy slipping away. Bathild eyes her from across the crowd with a silent reprimand for straining her body after the substantial blood loss and the exertion of the wound cauterization.

Her people deserve this night of jubilation, yet even when the spirits of unity are high, there is no telling when the drinking games will turn too competitive or too violent. Nicole excuses herself from the table but pulls Erik to the side, “Make sure the men act appropriately tonight. I am not my father and won’t stand for any of the thralls being taken against their consent. I’d say that you should employ Haldor’s help but…” finishing the sentence is pointless, as she gestures towards the mountain of a man sleeping like a child against the table surface.

“If our men are as virile as Haldor, you worry about nothing,” Erik jokes but seeing her serious expression, quickly adds, “I can vouch for my men but cannot control the actions of the Gissur’s clan.” He points behind her where Gissur pulls a young maid, who brought a fresh vessel of ale to the table, onto his lap, unknowingly substantiating Erik’s words.

Nicole nods and motions for Bathild to join them. “Secure all the thralls in my loft for the night – both women and men – and make sure they pull the ladder up with them. I cannot promise them protection tonight should they decide to stay out here. Erik, select a few of the less intoxicated men to relieve the maids from carrying the fresh food and drinks to the tables.”

“Yes, my gyðia,” Bathild is quick to agree.

Disappointed she can’t protect her own people, and feeling utterly impotent with her injuries, Nicole shuffles towards her longhouse, where she finds refuge in her chamber. She’s exhausted beyond belief. Throwing a couple of logs onto the smoldering centerfire, she sits down on the side bench to rest and considers whether she did everything she could for her people tonight.

Soon afterwards, a loud knock at her door announces a visitor. Nicole still hasn’t moved from the side bench, staring at the fire, lost in thought, and she commands them to enter. 

In walks Gissur, swaying and jovial, dragging the girl from earlier – Waverly – behind him, “I realized that this insolent thrall was a gift from me, so I grabbed her as soon as I spotted her. May she repay you for her disrespect by serving you tonight. You’re a victor today, young gyðia, and from experience, I recognize the only thing that will cool your blood and allow you a restful night of sleep.” He pushes Waverly to her knees in front of Nicole’s bench.

Funny, because Nicole was just thinking that the only thing she needs tonight is some well-earned peace and quiet. She knows she cannot afford to offend Gissur, nor would it be wise to decline and send the girl away with him. She plays along, laughing, “I think you underestimate my injuries, dear friend. But my thanks go to you, as I will welcome a warm body in my bed tonight.”

Gissur laughs with his whole barrel belly. “You are so solemn at times, I forget you are your father’s child. Enjoy the spoils!”

On his way out, he nearly knocks Bathild over, as she rushes in through the door. Helping Waverly up, Bathild says remorsefully, “I secured all the thralls and any single women who requested protection up in the loft, but the girl was somehow left behind.” 

“No apologies needed, Bathild. At least that asinine undertaking occupied Gissur for a while.”

Nicole directs her attention to Waverly, who appears more timid now than she was hours ago, not meeting her eyes, maybe even frightened by the commotion outside. “I know you haven’t been in my goðorð for long, but you have nothing to fear from my people or me,” Nicole tries to soothe her.

She looks up at Nicole but doesn’t respond, which is unusual for a thrall. What a curious case – first remarkably outspoken, now quiet, like the Skagafjörður bay in the summer. Nicole frowns, not sure how to approach her. “Have you eaten?” 

Looking down at her feet, Waverly shakes her head meekly. 

“Bathild, bring a plate for the girl – whatever is left in the great hall will suffice.” Nicole is hopeful that the girl’s spark will return with a full belly. As Bathild gathers food just outside of her chamber, Nicole takes off her overtunic painstakingly slowly, trying not to overthink how much it hurts her ego to be seen in such an infirm state by Waverly.

“Are you hurt badly?” Nicole is surprised to hear her speak. “I brought some… uhm… I have a… _cream_ … that will help you heal. If you’d let me…” Waverly trails off.

“Of course.” Nicole allows the girl to approach as she’s well aware that Bretland has many herbs and ointments not known in Iceland.

After hastily turning around and extracting something from her tunic that Nicole doesn’t quite see in the dim fire light, Waverly walks up to her. “Oh, wow,” she whispers and cradles her face softly – an action Nicole is shocked to allow. The sensation of Waverly’s palm framing her face is vaguely familiar and calming, and Nicole cannot help but close her eyes reflexively, even if only for a second. With a trembling hand, Waverly smears a cold cream on small cuts on her cheek and brows, never breaking the heavy eye contact. Nicole catches herself lowering her eyes to the girl’s inviting lips… 

“The stew is all gone, but I bring a good chunk of roasted reindeer,” Bathild announces at the door. Nicole creates a space between them and diverts her eyes from Bathild, not ready for the scrutiny she’s sure would be awaiting her.

Placing a cup of ale and a plate of meat surrounded by a few clumps of cheese and sliced apples on the bench by Waverly, Bathild says, “We ought to change your dressing, my gyðia.”

Not wanting to prolong this day any more than necessary, Nicole takes her undertunic off in acquiescence. She doesn’t miss the blush that colors Waverly’s cheeks and a haste diversion of the girl’s eyes at the sight of her exposed torso. Bathild shrugs, clearly as puzzled by Waverly’s strange reaction to a naked body. 

As the bandages are being changed and a new layer of lard is applied to her wound, Nicole takes a moment to study the woman in her chamber. Even though she’s wearing an ordinary red linen tunic covered by a strapped brown woolen dress, her hair is pinned up in an unfamiliar fashion, exposing her neck. Her effortless beauty and curious behavior draw Nicole in even more so than this afternoon. Scrunching her nose, Waverly picks at the apples and cheese, leaving the great chunks of meat untouched. 

“Is it not to your liking?” Nicole asks perplexed, as Bathild finishes securing the bandages. She walks to her bed-closet to retrieve a sleeping shift. 

“Oh, no. No. It’s great,” Waverly sends her a weak smile that does nothing to convince her.

The fire is still burning bright, yet Nicole sees Bathild tossing another log into it, lingering uncertain in the room. A sudden realization crosses her mind, and she points at the side bench, “You may sleep here tonight.” She reaches deeper into her bed-closet to retrieve a thick bear fur and passes it to the woman.

“I appreciate your kindness, my gyðia, but the fur won’t be necessary,” inclining her head deferentially, Bathild obediently declines. Some habits die hard.

“Nonsense. Take the fur.” With the help of Bathild, Nicole climbs into the bed-closet and settles in. “The girl will keep me warm,” she adds, gesturing at Waverly stood uncertain behind Bathild, mostly to convince the woman to accept the small comfort.

Turning around, Bathild rushes Waverly to climb into the bed-closet. Surprising them both, Waverly attempts to settle down next to Nicole.

“What are you doing, silly girl?!” Bathild hisses through her teeth and pulls at Waverly’s leg. “Lying next to the gyðia, as a wife would! Who’s even heard of such a thing! Stay in the feet of the bed, where you belong!”

If there is one thing that aggravates typically stoic Bathild, it certainly is a disregard for customs and traditions. Wincing in sympathy, as Nicole clearly remembers numerous times from her youth when she was harshly reprimanded by Bathild, she tries to mollify the woman, “It has been a long day, Bathild, and I’m sure Waverly meant no disrespect. Knock if there is any disturbance at night.”

Face still red with anger and breathing hard, Bathild shakes her head in reproach, but closes the bed-closet behind them, adding, “Lock the door from the inside, Waverly.”

With the door closed, darkness envelops them. Shuffling noises of Bathild settling down outside and Waverly trying to find a comfortable position at the foot of the bed are the only sounds reaching Nicole’s ears.

Minutes pass. Nicole tries to gather and analyze all the information she has about the enigmatic woman spending the night in her bed-closet, yet her eyelids are heavy with the toil of the day. Nearly succumbing to sleep, she hears a quiet whisper, “What will you do with me?”

Surprised at the sudden candor, Nicole frowns, “I won’t bed you if that’s what you fear. My people don’t take advantage of others in that way, although I know it is a custom in many other goðorðs. Keeping you here was the only way for me to offer you protection and not to offend Gissur.” 

The irregular breathing levels off and Nicole realizes how scared Waverly must have been. How her behavior must have only exaggerated the woman’s apprehension.

 _This can wait until tomorrow_ , Nicole thinks, resting her eyes again.

 _Your comfort should only be as great as the comfort of those in your care_ , she reminds herself.

Her internal argument is easily overweighed by the immense curiosity about Waverly. Pulling up onto her elbows and reclining against the backwall of her bed-closet as to keep the sleep at bay, Nicole clears her throat, rationalizing the forthcoming question as nothing more but an attempt at calming Waverly. “What was your life like before you came here?” 

“Oh.” The question physically rattles Waverly, and she stammers, “We… uhm… I mean, I…” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’d ever say that, but it will be easier to start with my childhood… When I was little, a bunch of… _bad men_ … came and killed my father and took my oldest sister.”

The way Waverly almost trips over her words as if she wanted to say something else, has Nicole closing her eyes in anguish, suspecting who those _bad men_ were. It must have happened during one of the last raiding expeditions Gissur undertook with the help of her father. “And what of your mother?” she’s almost too afraid to ask.

“My mom left even earlier,” comes a whispered answer that pulls at Nicole’s heart. How much misery can one person suffer? 

“My mother also passed to Fólkvangr when I was three winters old,” Nicole feels compelled to offer.

“I’m sorry, Ni… githia,” Waverly murmurs, yet Nicole catches her slip of the tongue. If Waverly’s insistence on calling her by her given name is perplexing, her accent when she pronounces her title is exceedingly more captivating. “What is your life here like?” It’s a strange question, but even though Nicole can’t see her in the darkness of the night, Waverly at least seems much more relaxed now. 

“I’ll show you tomorrow,” she promises, smiling at the prospect, before the sleep overcomes her.

~

Loud, abrupt knocking wakes Nicole up. Her legs are leaden, and for a split second, still half in the dreamland, she’s convinced that she lost the ability to walk due to some hidden injury. She once saw a farmer in the far west reaches of her farthing who was afflicted by such a tragedy after falling off his horse. She lifts up to her elbows to discover Waverly snuggling on top of her legs, head resting in Nicole’s lap, hindering her movement. Although highly inappropriate yet again, the action brings a broad smile to Nicole’s lips.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

“Your presence is required for the passing ceremony, gyðia,” Haldor’s deep, gruff voice permeates into the bed-closet.

Moving gingerly, Nicole repositions the girl off her lap. How could anyone sleep through this is beyond her understanding. As Nicole moves to unlock the door from the inside, Waverly wakes up slowly and looks around herself, confused and lost. 

“It is unlike you not to be up with the sunrise,” Erik intones playfully, “Unless…” He yanks the door wide open and clasps his hands with joy. “Unless someone kept you up all night!”

Waverly blushes prettily at the insinuation, hastily fixing her bedraggled hair, which does nothing to disperse Erik’s notion. Nicole decides not to dignify him with a response and slides out of the bed-closet gracelessly, Waverly scrambling behind her.

“Be gone now, girl, and make sure not to attract goðor Gissur’s attention again,” Bathild dismisses Waverly, approaching Nicole with a fresh set of bandages.

Taking her sleeping shift off to allow Bathild access, Nicole clears her throat, “Actually, Bathild, Waverly will be staying in my charge for the next few days. Just as I… as I heal. I understand how many duties you must carry out every day and I wish for Waverly to relieve you from caring for my wounds as well.”

Bathild raises an eyebrow in question but dutifully calls for Waverly to assist with the wound redressing. Waverly is as shy as she was yesterday, almost to the verge of being embarrassed by seeing Nicole’s exposed chest, not at all helping with Erik’s playful morning disposition. 

“Ahhh, so I see it was of more significance than a post-battle tryst. Have you been stricken by Lofn, my gyðia? Shall we – perhaps – start planning for a different type of celebration soon?”

“Erik,” Nicole warns him but the blush spreading down her neck and exposed torso betrays and belittles her words.

“Who’s Lofn?” Waverly asks in a scratchy, husky, morning voice that causes Nicole to send a silent prayer, laced with heavy accusations, to Frigg for putting her in this position.

“Lofn is the goddess of the forbidden love,” Erik is fast to supply, clearly more lenient towards Waverly than he was yesterday. “She helps bring star-crossed lovers safely together.” 

To Nicole’s utter astonishment, the concept, which caused even her to blush furiously, doesn’t seem to make Waverly uncomfortable – if anything, she appears calmer now, looking deeply into Nicole’s eyes, as if Lofn herself gave her strength.

“The preparations for the passing ceremony for those lost in yesterday’s battle are completed. Goðor Gissur desires to ride back to his farthing soon,” Haldor grumpily interrupts Erik’s shenanigans. Looking at him, Nicole can see now that the man must be suffering a painful headache after a night of imbibing but is too proud to ask Bathild for a remedy.

With a fresh bandage secured, Nicole puts a clean linen undertunic on, nodding in acknowledgment at Haldor and requesting that Bathild bring her a breakfast plate. Since bending over is too painful, she resolves to sit down on the side bench to put her pants and leather shoes on and finish dressing up. From her position on the bench, she motions for Haldor to supply her with mead to swallow her breakfast with and he gratefully accepts a cup of his own. Waverly joining her on the bench raises some eyebrows, but the girl happily indulges in sharing her breakfast cheese and bread, ignoring the pointed stares.

“I assume there were no more troubles last night, as you did not rouse me?”

“Eh,” Erik shrugs non-committedly. “I allowed several fistfights and wrestling matches, as the men needed to blow off the tension, but I drew the line when some of them wanted to hike down to the lake for a swimming competition – I know well how those tend to evolve more into drowning contests, even when the participants are entirely sober.” Erik grins, clearly thinking of one too many times he and Nicole partook in just that type of a _swimming_ _contest_. 

Waverly eats everything off their plate with much more enthusiasm than last night, sending Nicole a blinding smile. It matters not that Nicole barely just managed a bite of stale bread – she’ll gladly grab a wild plum or a crab apple on the way out for sustenance if it means this enigmatic girl will smile that freely.

Getting up to her feet, Nicole throws a brown-bear fur over her back – a trophy from one of her father’s raids of Bretland’s coast and a symbol of her power. She carefully secures it with an elaborately carved bone pin and an intricate gold brooch over her left shoulder.

Walking towards the door, Nicole addresses Waverly, loud enough for the invitation to be heard by everyone in the room, “Join me in ensuring that those who gave their lives protecting our burg and the entire northern farthing enter heroically into Valhalla and Fólkvangr.”

As they approach the bay, a Karve longship of clinker construction, with elaborately carved elements on high-raising bow and stern, awaits them. It’s already loaded with seven bodies – six men including the youngling Bathild mentioned yesterday, and one woman whom Nicole has no doubt will be selected by Freyja to join her army in Fólkvangr – all wrapped in linen canvas for their final journey. Their weapons are loaded with them as well, as are a few other implements, signifying their everyday occupations and status to whoever will greet them on the other side. Two horses, slain this morning, are also placed in the ship, to aid them in the final battle of Ragnarök, as much as a bribe for Odin and Freyja to accept these fallen warriors into their respective halls.

Nicole clasps Gissur’s forearm in greeting, while a larger longship with all of its 14 rowing benches occupied, hauls the Karve into the open waters of the bay. The crowd behind them quietens, as multiple bows are loaded with burning arrows and fired towards the Karve.

Gissur says a few words about the people they are seeing off today. Words of bravery, honor, duty.

_Of loyalty and of destiny._

“At the last Yule celebration, during the longest night of the year, Frigg sat at her spinning wheel, weaving the fates. Those seven courageous warriors laid their lives in her name, fulfilling the destiny she foretold. Those who go, must go willingly. Let the gates of Valhalla and Fólkvangr stand open for them today!” Gissur spills a bit of mead from his cup onto the shore, as a blót sacrifice to Odin and Freyja, and gulps the rest of the cup. The gathered crowd follows the example, watching as the burning Karve fades behind the thick fog of early autumn.

Gissur’s clan readies for a trek back to their farthing – back to their farms and their burgs, back to their placid, peaceful lives. Standing next to Nicole, still looking at the sea, even though the Karve has long disappeared, he murmurs, “Loyalty is a virtue as long as the cause is seen as worthy… I am tired, young gyðia, and I no longer see a way to continue to stand up to both the Sturlungs and the Norwegians.” He looks at her then, the foggy ambiance of the sea accentuating his age and weariness, “May we never meet on the opposing sides of a battlefield.” With a parting nod, he turns away from her. 

And Nicole understands his words for the admission of defeat, coming from a boastful Viking warrior of the long gone past. Watching his back, as he joins his people, Nicole sees not only a retreating form of a man but also a fracture to the last alliance against the warmongering clans and the beginning of the end for the independent Icelandic Commonwealth. 

Lost in thought, considering the best course of action for her farthing, for her people, in the face of enemies closing in from two fronts, Nicole doesn’t notice when everyone leaves the shore until a gentle hand on her elbow brings her back to reality. Waverly looks at her softly, brows pulled together in concern, and hands her a walking stick, “Bathild wanted you to use it on the way back.”

With no one there to witness her infirmity – no one, except for this soft-eyed girl – Nicole accepts the cane gratefully. The cauterized wound hurts, yes, and the walking stick will help, but the pain is masked by vicious burning and itching, minimizing Nicole’s brain to that of a dirty dog, scratching away at the fleas.

They stand on the shore for a few more moments before Nicole snaps out of it fully and looks at Waverly, really _looks_ at her. Blue lips and hands cradling the elbows meet her sight. _Blue lips_ … Nicole hastily unpins the fur off her shoulder and covers Waverly’s trembling back with it. Unthinkably, the girl left the burg without as much as a cloak or even a measly hood to protect her from the humid chill of the bay. 

Nicole’s mind refocuses, and she points the cane from east to west, “These two fjords define the extent of the Skagafjörður bay. The burg and the farmlands,” she points south, behind them, “are located in the Héraðsvötn River delta, where the lands are the most fertile.” Walking back from the shore, Nicole continues pointing at their surroundings, honoring the promise she made last night.

The birch forests, flanking the valley, provide wood for their buildings and their ships, sheltering some of the animals they hunt for meat and furs. It was also in this forest, just to the left of the path they’re on now, that Nicole fell off a tree as an overeager child, trying to collect eggs from a gyrfalcon’s nest perched high on top. As proof, she proudly displays a small scar on her left cheek to Waverly.

The Héraðsvötn River often floods in the spring and provides spectacular opportunities for salmon and trout fishing. It was only thanks to that small island now visible on their right that Nicole didn’t drown when she and Erik had a swimming competition when they were but 16 winters old. Erik suffered a heavy whipping by her father’s hand for pushing her underwater when she was already exhausted.

Down in the valley, the farmland is divided between several families, each specializing in a different resource. This here is the border of Ólafur Einarsson’s farmstead – they just harvested his barley last week. The woman they can see waving at them in the distance is Bryndís Jónsdóttir, who inherited this farmland from her father. Two winters ago, along with 12 other people, Nicole helped build this wooden fence to keep Bryndís’s sheep and goats from wandering off.

As they enter the burg, the walking stick now secured under her arm, Nicole is already fatigued and hungry after missing most of her breakfast. Waverly hasn’t spoken much during their walk back from the bay, and Nicole wonders yet again what causes the sudden mood swings. Passing by the smithy, the smokehouse, the bakehouse, and the animal sheds, she exchanges kind words with many people who greet her, although she’s also cognizant of as many curious looks directed at Waverly wearing her fur.

Instead of heading straight for the main door to her house, Nicole redirects their steps, approaching it from the far side. “Let’s hope that Bathild forgot to lock the stores in the commotion of this morning,” she whispers. The door opens with a creak, and Nicole grins at Waverly like she used to when she and Erik got into trouble as younglings. 

Grabbing a couple of smoked herrings, Nicole notices Waverly’s downcast expression. Although it’s a strange notion, she has an inkling of what might be wrong with her food choices. “There is pickled cabbage in that barrel over there and some smoked prunes on the shelf to your right. Just make sure to hide it well in your tunic.”

Waverly doesn’t have to be told twice. Relieved, Nicole puts one of the herrings away, and they sneak out of the stores and into the main hall, nobody paying them much heed, leaving Bathild none the wiser. Locking the door to her chamber behind them, Nicole sets out to stoke the fire.

Waverly sits with their looted food on the side bench and eyes her curiously. “This whole elaborate life… And you… You don’t remember me, do you?”

Thin twigs set aflame, Nicole looks up from the center hearth, surprised, “Have we met before?”

“No, no. It will sound crazy but… you belong to a different time, a different place in the future. You belong… you belong with me, Nicole.” The whispers are quiet, but they break the air and space between them like thunder.

“I don’t understand…”

“Your favorite color is blue, you have a cat who hates men, and you’re a dedicated cop, who secretly loves the baby carrots I leave on your desk.”

Even though half of Waverly’s words make no sense, Nicole suddenly remembers all the recent strange dreams she’s had.

Waverly fishes out a piece of parchment from underneath her dress and hands it to her. An uncanny likeness of Waverly and… and _herself_?... is pictured on it. Nicole closes her eyes, “We went to see a movie on translation errors that day.” The foreign words taste odd on her tongue. “Even though it was our first official date, all I wanted to do was to tell you I was already falling in love with you. But then Wynonna,” a grin splits Nicole’s face thinking about Waverly’s overprotective older sister and how much she reminds her of Erik, “Wynonna accosted us on the library stairs, and we pretended to have run into each other accidentally.”

“You remember?” Waverly asks hopefully, her eyes reflecting the flames back at Nicole from across the room.

Nicole shakes her head wistfully, “Not really. No. It feels more as if I dreamt about it or read it in one of the sagas… How is this possible?”

Instead of responding, Waverly throws herself into Nicole’s arms and connects their lips in a hungry kiss. _Just like she did in Nedley’s office_ , Nicole thinks, and the sole fact she just compared this kiss – their _first kiss_ , as far as she remembers – to another kiss that already happened… will have happened?... in the future, makes her head spin. She places gentle hands on Waverly’s hipbones, “Waverly, wait, wait, wait.”

Feeling faint, she gracelessly slouches onto the side bench, Waverly following a step behind her.

“You’ll come back with me now, right? I mean, you remember… or almost remember things. We can work the rest out when we get home.”

Her smile is so sanguine, Nicole’s chest burns to utter the next words, “Waverly… _This_ is my home.”

“God damn it, Nicole!” Waverly explodes, grabs her upper arms with both of her palms, and closes her eyes tightly. It is quiet for a few moments, Nicole left wondering what is happening, when Waverly huffs in irritation. She lets go of Nicole’s arms but keeps her eyes closed and then…

Waverly vanishes into thin air in front of Nicole’s eyes.

Blinking rapidly, Nicole curses Lofn, suspecting she must have been working with the jokester Loki on some elaborate joke to entertain the gods of Ásgarðr at her expense. Before she can get up, Waverly reappears on the bench right beside her, rubbing her forehead. 

“Those who go, _must go willingly_. Those who go, _must go willingly_.” Waverly mutters, repeating Gissur’s words from the passing ceremony. She looks Nicole in the eye with a broken expression painting her beautiful features, “I can’t force you to come back… Nicole, please, come home with me. _Please_ …” Her voice breaks, pulling on Nicole’s heartstrings.

Except for the crackling noises of the fire and a low murmur of voices creeping in from the great hall, the chamber falls silent. Nicole searches Waverly’s eyes, looking for the right words to express her emotions. 

“Waverly… I uhm.” Her throat suddenly dry, she swallows nervously. “ _I love you_. But I can’t leave… My duty lays here – with the people who rely on me. I can’t just abandon them – especially not now when the king of Norway is sure to act after the Sturlungs defeat.” 

“You can’t abandon them, but you can abandon us? Nedley, Wynonna, Dolls?!” Waverly asks, astonished. “Abandon _me_?” she adds in a quiet voice. “This,” she gestures around them, “is past. We can go to the library tomorrow and read exactly what happened with the Sturlungs and with Norway. You staying here won’t change any of it,” she’s pleading now, grasping Nicole’s hand.

Nicole frowns, “The future of my nation may be history to you, and you’re right that I have no influence over its destiny, as Frigg had woven its fate already. But the future of individual people under my rule, people whom you will not read about in your history sagas, lays in my hands. What if I leave and the next goðor decides not to approve of the rights of the ringkvinna?” Seeing Waverly’s confused expression, Nicole explains, “The rights of unmarried women to inherit the land and the position of the head of the family. What will happen to Bryndís? What if the next goðor no longer permits the worship of the gods of our fathers alongside the Christ god? What will happen with Bathild and this household she so meticulously created over the years?” Nicole wants to continue with countless other examples of every person within her farthing whose personal story she’s invested in, but the tears dropping soundlessly from Waverly’s eyes stop her. “I’m sorry…” 

Shaking her head and smiling through tears, Waverly says, “Don’t be. You were always too loyal for your own good.” Cupping Nicole’s face, she connects their lips gently.

The kiss is salty with Waverly’s tears and bitter with Nicole’s words, yet it is also the most honest and veracious of all the kisses they had shared in the future. 

“Stay with me tonight?” Nicole whispers against Waverly’s mouth. “Stay and tell me about our joint life?” 

Waverly smiles bashfully as they settle side-by-side in Nicole’s bed-closet. Simultaneously morose and happy, Waverly speaks of their first meeting at Shorty’s, their first fight in Nicole’s cruiser, their first kiss in Nedley’s office. She speaks of her sisters, Wynonna and Willa, of the brave marshal Dolls and the grumpy sheriff Nedley, of her supportive aunt Gus. She speaks of Purgatory, and the homestead, and Nicole’s house. At the end of this epic saga of a story, when Nicole closes her eyes, she  _almost_ feels like she belongs in that strange world of the future.

As the night descends over the northern farthing, Nicole pulls Waverly close to her chest and whispers words of love and words of farewell against her temple.

~

Even before Nicole opens her eyes the next morning, she knows without a doubt that she will no longer find Waverly next to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longhouses were those really neat narrow but long (as the name indicates) wooden buildings, which housed not only the people but also the animals and the workspace. The largest longhouse I’ve ever been to was divided into something like ten separate side-by-side “apartments” – an original townhouse, if you will.
> 
> The bed-closet that Nicole sleeps in was not a common feature in a Scandinavian longhouse – only the head of the house slept in sort of a box-bed that was enclosed for security, as much as for privacy. As you can imagine, sharing a longhouse with multiple people didn’t afford a lot of privacy. Common folk slept on side benches that lined the walls of the longhouse.
> 
> Gissur Thorvaldsson did eventually bend his knee to the king of Norway. Three years after the events of the battle described in Chapter 1, prompted by the king of Norway, Gissur led a posse of men to kill saga-writer Snorri Sturluson (a brother of Sighvatur who led the Sturlungs in that battle). Twenty years after the battle, he was made Earl of Iceland for his loyal service to the king.
> 
> Lofn was the Goddess of any romantic love that was forbidden or frowned upon by family, clan, or society. Her name means “permission”, and she was invoked to get rid of shame around one’s forbidden desires. She facilitated lovers in coming together, and protected them from the wrath of others. In other words, Lofn said gay rights.
> 
> Fólkvangr and Valhalla were two fields in Asgard, where those who died traveled to. Valhalla was ruled by Odin and is better known now. Fólkvangr was under Goddess Freyja’s rule, and it is difficult to distinguish between the two of them with the little information that survived to our times. One thing for certain was that Freyja welcomed everybody to her hall (including women), while Odin only accepted men to Valhalla.
> 
> Christianization of Scandinavia took perhaps the longest in the entire European continent. There were several centuries where the old Norse paganism coexisted with Christianity, which is truly fascinating! As a marketing strategy, the Catholic church chose to promote the image of Jesus as a “victorious Christ” – a figure of strength and luck, which spoke to the Vikings.


	4. December 23, 2016

_ December 23, 2016 _

_Purgatory, Montanada_

_It gets easier each time_ , Waverly thinks as she’s yanked from the black tunnel and spit out onto the frozen ground right outside of the Ghost River Triangle boundary. She doesn’t even get a moment to appreciate the fact that she didn’t puke this time, doesn’t get her bearings back, when she gets tackled to the ground by a mess of black leather and lose brown curls.

“You’re back! She kept you there, didn’t she? I’m going to kick her fucking ass next time I see her, and it ain’t gonna be pretty… But you’re here now. You’re back,” Wynonna rambles, pulling her up to her feet and running her hands from her face down her body and up again, mechanically looking for injuries.

Waverly closes her eyes. _Denial_ , she thinks. “Yeah, I’m here,” she croaks out instead.

“I saw you last night for like a split second. What happened?”

“I was trying something.” She looks around, “Where’s Jeremy? I need to talk with him.” 

“Sleeping in the back of Dolls’ car,” Wynonna tips her chin in the direction of the black SUV parked about 100 feet away. Dolls is one foot out of the vehicle, his hand resting on the open door, giving them space, but the concern is evident on his face.

Just then does Waverly notice a sleeping bag lying on the ground by a small provisional fire. She removes a piece of a dry poplar tree leaf from Wynonna’s wild mane. “You slept out here, didn’t you?” Her heart squeezes sharply at the display of devotion from the sister she barely just got back. 

“Eh, ya know. No biggie. Had one too many in me last night and it was easier to sleep here than ride back to town with the judgmental bossman,” Wynonna deflects.

“Are you fine riding back now?” Waverly smiles at her sister’s embarrassed avoidance and walks backwards towards the SUV, watching Wynonna hastily collect her sleeping bag off the ground.

Jeremy shoots up, wiping his drool off and mumbling something incomprehensive under his breath when Waverly slides into the back seat. “Oh good, you’re here. My Geiger counter was reading such low radiation levels that I wasn’t sure you’d even be able to get back.”

“I missed you too,” Waverly responds, causing Jeremy to duck his head down in embarrassment. “But yeah. I felt the portal closing – even just trying to get pulled back was hard.”

“Who was hard?” Wynonna grins, shutting the front door of the SUV with much more gusto than is required for any vehicle built after 1995.

~ 

This time, Waverly’s eyes don’t look for Nicole in the bullpen. She knows she wouldn’t be there. Waverly knows because she spent last night in her arms, listening to the steady beating of her heart, breathing in the familiar smell of Nicole’s skin mixed in with a hint of sea salt and smoke – foreign but not unpleasant, but above all, most definitely, real.

As they settle in the BBD office, Waverly sits down with Jeremy at his desk to discuss what she learned and google the details she’s uncertain of. “Goddess Frigg,” Waverly mutters, typing the words into the search engine.

“Odin’s wife?” Jeremy asks to Waverly’s surprise. “What? I did some research after watching the first Thor movie!”

“Right…” Waverly interferes before Jeremy’s brain sets off daydreaming about Chris Hemsworth and his godlike body. “So, Frigg… I gathered that the Vikings believed that she determined everybody’s destiny. It says here,” she clicks on a promising looking link, “that every year she spun her spinning wheel, weaving the fates, during the longest night of the year.” 

“Winter solstice,” Jeremy whispers, an understanding crossing his face. 

“It wasn’t only the Vikings who believed in Frigg, Waverly.” They both jump a little at Dolls’ words, as he sneaks up from behind. “She was a significant figure in the mythologies of most early Northern European cultures – Norse, Germanic, British. In fact, her worship was so prevalent that in the 4th century Pope Julius I established Christ’s birthday on December 25th in hopes of replacing the widespread pagan holidays happening all over Europe around that date.”

Standing behind Waverly’s chair, Dolls types quickly over her shoulder and generates a search results page populated with images of a Christmas wreath. “You may associate this with the Christian tradition, but it was, in fact, a symbol of Frigg’s spinning wheel – a symbol of the cycle and continuity of life. Christians… _adopted it_ to make the December 25th celebrations more recognizable to the people of the time.”

“How do you know all of that?” Jeremy asks a bit awestruck. 

“Let’s just say that Frigg is a powerful deity who the BBD made sure never to piss off. Do you think she had something to do with Nicole’s disappearance, Waverly?” vague as always, Dolls responds. 

“Yes, yeah,” Waverly nods, trying to absorb the new information. Wait, if Frigg is a real, honest to god, well… _goddess_ , then do other Norse gods exist as well? _Does Lofn?_ Waverly has to shake her head to disperse the nagging thoughts. There’s not much time to waste. “I don’t know why or how it happened. But we all know that the portal is closing and I have… I don’t know… I have a _hunch_ that we can reopen it again during the next winter solstice.” 

“A _hunch_ is not a lot, Waves,” Jeremy whispers, blinking rapidly. “Plus, a year is a long time to leave Nicole hanging.”

“We won’t leave her hanging,” offended that Jeremy would even suggest such a thing, Waverly is quick to correct. “She _doesn’t want_ to come back – not yet at least, claiming responsibility for the people there.”

“That’s Haught for ya!” Wynonna supplies unhelpfully, not looking up from her phone, sat comfortably with her feet crossed at the ankles over the communal table.

“What I’m saying is that she needs to _want to_ come back – I tried to bring her back with me by force and the portal didn’t even budge. So, you, Jeremy,” she points at the boy who quickly became one of her closest friends, “will continue to research this and be there next year for the winter solstice. And I… I’ll go back there now.” 

“Ha! Good one, Waves,” Wynonna snorts. “Didn’t you hear the nerd-head? The portal is closing. If your _hunch_ is right and we can make it reopen next year, then maybe.”

“I know it’s closing!” Waverly’s voice raises, though she doesn’t intend for it to. “I know,” she adds more calmly. “That’s why I have to go back now. I can’t leave Nicole alone out there.”

Wynonna is up to her feet in an instant; her phone abandoned carelessly on the table. “Absolutely fucking no!”

~

 _Stage two – anger_ , Waverly thinks, huffing in indignation at being tied to a chair.

“You can’t just keep her here forever,” arms crossed over his chest, clearly trying for an intimidating look, Dolls berates the fuming Wynonna.

“Yeah? Watch me!” She snarls, pacing the length of the BBD office like a trapped bobcat. “Plus, it’s not forever – just until the freaking thing closes and we can all go back to our normal lives. I mean, ya know, as _normal_ as any of our lives are.”

“Come on, Wynonna. Can we just…” Jeremy starts to implore but quietens quickly and looks to the floor deferentially, seeing her wrathful eyes turn towards him.

“No.We.Can’t. There is no way in hell I’m letting my baby sister walk through that portal without knowing if we’d ever be able to bring her back,” her words are deliberate now, cold and quiet. 

She kicks a leg from underneath a chair, and they all just let her exhaust herself, like a toddler throwing a fit. Waverly would have been vexed with the arrogance and the assumed control over her life if it wasn’t for how touching the underlying reason for this display was.

“Wynonna,” Waverly ventures after a few minutes of quiet, assuming the worst of it has passed.

“Don’t you _Wynonna_ me right now. I was so fucking pissed at Haught for keeping you there but turns out I should have been pissed at you this whole time. Un-fucking-believable,” she shakes her head. 

“It will be hard to convince her to come back to this,” Waverly muses quietly, watching her sister fume anew.

“What did you just say? She _remembers_ and still refuses to come back? Oh, come on, Waves! You can’t be serious about this. Someone who puts their own personal _whatever_ bullshit before your wellbeing? It’s like Champ all over again!”

Tying her up is one thing but talking smack about her… _girlfriend_ … is something else altogether. “Don’t you even dare compare Nicole to Champ,” she hisses. “You know as well as I do that she’s only doing it out of a sense of duty and loyalty, twisted as it is. The same freaking _duty_ and _loyalty_ that had all of us trust her right away.”

Wynonna huffs and crosses her arms but has no immediate retort. Waverly takes it for a good sign.

“What good does it do us if her duty and loyalty are not on our side?” Wynonna asks, much less aggravated. “Such an asshole.”

“See, that’s what I thought too at first, Nonna. But then I realized, I can’t pick and choose – if I… uhm…,” she looks at Dolls quickly, not quite used to the revolving-door nature of coming out yet, and swallows her forthcoming words. “If I _respect_ Nicole for being so unreserved and so certain about the importance of those values, then I can’t simultaneously begrudge her for it when it doesn’t suit me.” 

The unusual softness that crosses Dolls’ face has her exhaling quietly in relief. Maybe she had nothing to worry about after all. 

“That’s beside the point,” Wynonna tries to argue back. “We barely know her. I mean… you guys _just_ met. And I… I’m your _sister_ , god damn it. We’re family.” 

The anger isn’t there anymore. _Bargaining?_ Already? Waverly was certain that the anger would have lasted longer with Wynonna. 

“I know. It’s crazy but… I can’t help how I feel about Nicole…” well, the cat’s out the bag one way or another, and she might as well be honest. Dolls sends her a kind smile and gestures for Jeremy to follow him outside, probably deciding it’s time to let the Earp sisters sort it out on their own. Or perhaps he just now felt it was safe to leave Waverly tied up and alone with her off-her-rocker crazy sister.

“Have you ever met someone and instantly known in your heart that they meant something to you?” Waverly whispers, watching Wynonna’s eyes follow Dolls’ silhouette disappearing behind the opaque glass pane of the closed door. 

Her sister clears her throat awkwardly, “Yeah, whatever. Don’t get all mushy on me with the whole soulmate crap.” 

“That’s not… I’m not saying… We’re not…” Waverly sputters and takes a deep breath, fighting the blush from rising to her cheeks. _Stupid ideas planted in her head about goddess Lofn._

Wynonna sends her an amused look, before swiftly proceeding to untie her. She keeps Waverly close though, letting their foreheads meet.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, baby girl…” her whisper is so quiet in comparison to the larger than life, obnoxious persona she parades around every day, that it momentarily derails Waverly’s resolve. The honesty and pain in her sister’s eyes don’t help either. “You have to go and be a hero, huh? That’s my goddamned job,” Wynonna tries for a joke, struggling to be inconspicuous about wiping her tears off.

Waverly swallows her own tears. “I can’t leave Nicole. She may not fully remember her life here, but I do. And knowing very acutely how it feels to be abandoned, I couldn’t do that to her.” 

Wynonna’s eyebrows rise to her hairline, but Waverly anticipates her next words before she even opens her mouth. 

“Before you say anything – I’m not abandoning you! God, Wyn, it’s an impossible choice but at least I know that you have Dolls to get you out of trouble, Jeremy to be your brains, and aunt Gus to always back you up. Hell, even Nedley would go to the mat for you. And I just have to trust that you guys will figure it out – if not next year, then later. That you’ll bring both of us back.”

After a beat, Wynonna asks, gloomy and dejected, “Did you mean what you said at the station before Willa… you know… before she shot at Nicole?”

The question is a bit of a non-sequitur, forcing Waverly to rack her brain, trying to figure out what Wynonna was referring to exactly. The night of the party and the ensuing commotion are all jumbled in her memory. 

_Oh._

“You mean if I…” she doesn’t finish the question, letting it trail lamely, even for herself.

“Yeah. Do you?”

Waverly pauses. 

Wynonna is right that she hasn’t known Nicole for long. She’s also right to imply that it’s a tremendous sacrifice to make for someone who you just started dating. There is a very real chance that the bet she’s making about Jeremy being able to reopen the portal come next winter solstice will not pay off and she will forever be trapped in a foreign country, at a foreign time. 

But then she thinks of Nicole’s kind smile and even kinder heart, of her willingness to put herself in the harm’s way for the ordinary citizens of Purgatory, of her broody swagger. A shy smile splits her face. She has an inkling that Nicole wouldn’t even hesitate were she in Waverly’s shoes. She _actually_ didn’t hesitate, saving Wynonna from the tentacle monster that ended up sucking her through the portal instead. Blinking rapidly, Waverly sees the gesture for the first time for what it really was – sacrificing herself to save Wynonna for Waverly’s sake, because she understood how important her sister was to her. Even _the other Nicole_ , Waverly realizes, is much the same as the woman she fell for – sheltering both her and Bathild for the night, sharing her breakfast and the bear fur with Waverly, and proudly showing her around her lands. There isn’t a question left about it. 

“I do, Wynonna,” Waverly croaks, her throat suddenly dry. “I do love her.” 

Strong arms envelop her, as Wynonna crushes her into an embrace. “You are my light, Waves, and it’ll be so fucking hard to share that with anyone else. But I guess, if anyone deserves a ray of that light right now, it’s Haught,” wet, chocked whispers land into Waverly’s hair. “We’ll bring you back. Come hell or high water, I swear we will.” 

~ 

They spend the night at the homestead, sharing a bottle of whiskey by the fireplace, lounging on layers and layers of blankets and pillows. Both avoid talking about the future, preferring to bring up the semi-happy memories from their childhood, sparse as they might be.

Wynonna is not there when Waverly wakes up in the morning. She can’t say she blames her; the goodbyes are the hardest after all. Her absence still pierces Waverly’s heart.

 _So much for acceptance._  

~ 

When she blinks her eyes open on the other side, Waverly makes a beeline for the bed-closet and throws herself at the sleeping Nicole. Sobs rattle her body, and she allows herself to melt into Nicole’s steady, welcoming arms. 

“I’ve got you, Waves. I’ve got you.”


End file.
